Fate Once Future
by underLegible
Summary: What the hell is all this? A 6th Holy Grail War? Alternate realities bumping together? Wisecracking Warriors of Old? Heart wrenching drama eventually? A lazy author with an OC-centric story? A pregnant Rin? Waiver's getting too old for this crap...
1. Chapter 1

Fate Once Future

Chapter 1

"It is about time, Connolly. The war has nearly begun."

"My apologies, King of Heroes. He was so very careful not to leave a trail. Nevertheless, I am sure it is him."

"Hmmph." A pale thin hand stretched out languidly, bringing the file back to its reclining master.

"Massachusetts? That's another location in America."

"Your knowledge is as dazzling as ever, Your Grace."

The reclining figure sighed.

"It seems as though even the Grail has grown bored of this country. Oh, well. Perhaps I'll enjoy a change of scenery. Besides," he stopped at the door, turning back to the dark figure in the corner of the room. "So long as you and your companions hold true, the trip should be well rewarded."

"Be at ease, King. I am nothing if not a man of my word."

_20 years earlier._

Kariya Matou sunk to his knees as blood ran from his remaining good eye; his father, Zouken, showed characteristic disinterest, all attention focused on the tall knight in black armor.

Kariya growled through gritted teeth as the worms beneath his skin slithered across his face. He hadn't expected the summoning to be so difficult, nor his little helpers to get so agitated.

He looked up as his new Servant let loose a similar groan of pain. Long black hair covered his face as he bent over and howled with his head in his hands.

"What did we do to him?" Kariya asked.

"It's probably just the effects of the madness. Don't worry." Zouken replied with a genuine smile. Nothing kept the old bastard happy like screams in the basement.

"No, something's gone wrong," Kariya insisted. "He looks too young, he felt too strong, and-"

"If anything's wrong, it will be your fault for abandoning your studies and loving family," Zouken interjected, lazily walking around the prostrate knight like a man inspecting a horse. "It's not unheard of for inexperienced mages to summon warriors from separate timelines and different realities: sometimes even the future. If we've found ourselves in possession of a stronger servant by pure luck, we'll take it."

He struck down on Kariya's hand with his cane as he passed, causing him to cry out in pain.

"Don't be so ungrateful."

_10 years earlier._

Kirei Kotomine took a slow sip of wine as he waited for a response. The fragment of the Round Table, Kariya's small gift for saving his life and slaying his rival so long ago, lay in a protective cloth on the table between himself and the pouting king.

"I can't understand why you would ever want to bring that mad dog back into this world," declared Gilgamesh.

"I've received word that the Einzberns are in possession of an artifact of Heracles. It would be in our best interest to swoop up the Berserker class before them. After all, you wouldn't want anyone harming your precious Saber before you swept her off her feet, would you?"

"Do not mock me, Kirei! And that's precisely why I don't want _that _Servant around again. He had such a fervent obsession with her, if you'll remember."

"Look who's talking."

Gilgamesh glared, and opened his mouth to speak. Kirei held up his right hand to silence him, then pulled down his sleeve. Various symbols on his arm shined slightly in the candlelight.

"I can control him. Don't worry."

_Present Day._

Josephine pushed a lock of purple hair out of her face as she concentrated.

"Hoenheim's Fifth Law, right?"

"Shockingly, yes! That's still the right answer! Can I go home now?"

"Malcolm, please, let's just run through it one more time, ok?"

Her boyfriend sighed heavily, and picked up her notes sheet.

"Where should the Anchoring Rune be in a Summoning Circle?"

"At twelve and six o'clock."

"Wrong."

She panicked. "What? What is it?"

"It's three a.m.! And I'm tired."

"What!" She leapt to her feet, bumping a precariously leaning tower of pizza boxes and textbooks. "I haven't even gone over my affinity drills yet!"

Malcolm sighed. As a history major, he didn't have to take Salem U's infamously difficult M.A.T.'s, but thanks to Josephine they were still taking over his life. His girlfriend handled stress the way most musicians handled drugs, thriving and dying at the same time. Already her brown roots were showing, a worrying sign for a girl whose color could change from blue to silver to today's flowing purple with a snap of her fingers.

Her hands were now hovering over a bonsai tree like a puppeteer's, forcing it to grow and bend in unnatural shapes. He stepped beside her nervously as it grew long, pale thorns, and began twisting and whipping its branches like an octopus stuck in the sand.

"You know if you keep pushing yourself like this, it's going catch up to you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I have a pretty good- hey!"

He caught her as she fainted, the extra exertion proving too much after too many days of too little sleep. Malcolm began gently leading her to the apartment's closet-sized bedroom as she came to, already arguing against the necessity of sleep.

"I don't want to hear it. You still have three days until the Magical Proficiency exams. That's more than enough time to go through notes you've already memorized."

She flopped down face first on the bed, mumbling a parting shot through the pillow. "I'll miss Professor Proctor's lecture if I sleep now."

"If you can manage to find your crystals in all this mess I can show it to you later, but not until you've gotten some rest." He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly when she caught his arm. He sighed and turned back to her.

"Cross-Temporal scrying is an incredibly advanced magic. You know it could land you into the Upper Mage's association."

He scowled down at her. Her hair didn't match her face. It was too natural, too timeless; it had the shape of a black and white film star and the color of an almond, a genetic work of art in a cheap plastic frame.

He liked her. He really did. It was just her insistence that he apply himself that got annoying.

"But _you _know anyone applying for mage status goes through a thorough background check, and I wouldn't amount to anything once they knew I was second-generation."

She scowled up at him. His eyes didn't match his face. They were too soft, two soft pools of shining emerald blue, or maybe an azure green. Everything else about him, from his sculpted frame to his jet black hair was sleek and cold, but his eyes always seemed so warm and regal.

The clock struck four. The two stubborn adversaries surveyed their positions on a familiar battleground, and wisely withdrew.

"I'll be back at lunch. Try to get some sleep in the meantime, OK?"

"Right." She rolled over as the door shut gently, and closed her eyes.

_Just try and get some sleep._

Something exploded outside her window.

"Son of a-!"

Outside in the parking lot, golden spears and swords fell like raindrops, but with far more speed and collateral damage.

Malcolm ducked, spun, and weaved in the torrent of deadly treasures, still unharmed but clothed in shreds. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the blonde man on the lamppost smirk, suddenly doubling his rate of fire without so much as uncrossing his arms.

"Damn!" He leaped behind a row of cars and came up running. The projectiles followed, tearing through automobiles like a drunken heiress. As he ran, someone's gas tank exploded, and sent him flying into the side of a van.

"Have you decided to give up your little game of hide-and-seek yet, mongrel?" The young man in golden armor jumped to the next lamppost. His quarry lay coughing up blood on the pavement, glaring angrily. "Or do you insist on hiding your true form in front of your king?"

"I killed my only king, Gilgamesh. Twice." The dark haired man got up shakily to his feet, spitting out a last glob of blood. "And unlike some people, I don't really like to show off. What do you want?"

"How dare you waste my precious time playing dumb?" Another spear shot out from a shining portal near his elbow, faster than any before it. It made contact with Malcolm's shoulder, causing his image to flicker like a projection. Jacket and jeans were suddenly replaced by a suit of steel armor, large plates for the shoulders, chest, and hips, gauntlets, greaves, mail sleeves and leggings, and a plain tunic. Everything was black, except for a magnificent blue and white scabbard on his left side.

"Of all my possessions you've taken, only two are of any worth to me now."

Malcolm rubbed his shoulder where the spear had bounced off. "Just hoarding, Gil? Or are you making war plans?"

The blonde man's arrogant smirk grew less flippant and more dangerous. "Thanks to you, my queen is still lost in the past, and I'm running out of time to summon her. Lancer, Rider, and Berserker are already accounted for. We need what you stole."

Malcolm's face twisted into a snarl, and for the first time, he looked truly lethal. A golden glow burst forth from his right hand, and he was suddenly holding the shimmering outline of an invisible blade. "I committed many sins to get this, but I never stole a damn thing. I consider this blade my rightful spoils of war, and would sooner die than see you have it!"

"So glad we agree." The glowing portals suddenly flared up again at his sides, and resumed their firing.

The man in dark armor roared and charged forth, his arms blurring as he brushed the battering blades aside. Gilgamesh gasped as he leapt forward, cutting down the ancient king's high ground.

The dark swordsman rebounded off the side of another van with a kick, and charged back at his opponent. The golden king landed catlike on his feet and drew two golden swords from the air around him.

Their blades clashed, both figures suddenly blurs of deadly intent. The king found himself being pushed back almost immediately by his opponent's ferocity. He ducked under a wide slash and tried to stab through the opening, but the dark swordsman was ready. He leapt to the side and spun around, slashing at the ancient king's back. To his credit he reacted quickly, leaping upward far higher than any human should. On the ground, his adversary continued to spin, forcing his wind mana into a miniature tornado.

"Damn it!" Gilgamesh roared as he found himself flung through the air. He twisted as he soared, shifting his weight and landing on top of a building across the street.

"Well, you're certainly fast for a pathetic-NANI?!

He ducked as a shimmering golden sword spun over his head. His lightning reflexes earned him a direct right hook to the face, his foe having sprinted straight up the building.

"You really shouldn't let anyone get this close as an Archer!" The old Berserker roared as he let loose a barrage with his steel-encased fists. "You're less than worthless without your Noble Phan-erk!"

The Chains of Heaven wrapped around his neck from behind, pulling him back across the roof and lashing him to a billboard. They pulled his arms over his head, nearly squeezed the life out of him, before releasing just enough slack to let him breathe.

Both fighters paused for a moment, gasping, before Gilgamesh, King of Heroes, started laughing until he coughed up blood.

"I will admit, mongrel, I underestimated you. I should have expected more from the Grail's only solo winner. But…" He chuckled, wiping away a few drops of blood from his lips, "you made a far more grievous error in ever thinking you could best me in the first place."

The man in chains felt his cheeks burn with anger and shame. He seemed to be fighting back tears, before lifting his head to speak.

"I don't understand. You spent half your life searching for immortality in the legends, and now you've got it. What more could you possibly want bad enough to go after the Grail?!"

The golden king plucked a sword from the air behind him, and began idly inspecting the point. "Of all this world's pleasures I've desired, the only one I have so far been denied was Saber's company. I could, and shall, live forever, but I would still be unfulfilled. However, once I kill you, and take your spoils to a certain associate of mine, she will live again. And in return, even if it requires one of his Command Seals, even if it is only for one night, Saber will be mine."

Malcolm winced. "That's my mom, dude."

"Goodbye, Mordred."

He slashed at Mordred's neck. His eyes flashed black at the moment of contact, and the blade shattered.

Gilgamesh gasped. He suddenly felt lighter, and noticed that his armor had disappeared. So had the chains.

Mordred roared in triumph, his blade appearing in a burst of gold as he descended. He slashed down hard enough to crack the concrete, and crimson blood burst from the King of Heroes' chest a split second later.

Gilgamesh cried out in agony, hugging his chest, eyes open wide in disbelief as he sank to his knees.

Mordred walked over calmly, all pretense of desperation faded. His frame seemed to exude a dark energy, and the closer he got, the more Gilgamesh felt as though he were being smothered, his power and vitality fading.

"I did tell you, Gil. You're useless without your little toys."

He sliced the man's neck with a lazy flick of his arm. Moments later, he was back on the streets in modern garb, pulling a hood over his face as the sirens wailed.

_I'll definitely have to move again, _he thought. _Whoever tracked me down must be an influential mage to not only find me and Gilgamesh, but convince him to work as a partner. I'll also need to figure out where the Grail is this year; the last thing I want to do is get mixed up in that damn war again._

He turned the corner. Josephine stood there, tired eyes pleading for answers. He looked down instinctively, and saw the burning red swirls on her right hand.

"Son of a bitch!"

-X-X-X-X-X-X-X-

Update: I tried fixing the summary again. I'm somewhat new to this site. Thanks to all of you who took a chance and read this thing! Please feel free to review (just "I like" or "meh" is good enough).

Expect me to update once a week, until I don't.


	2. Chapter 2

Fate Once Future

Chapter 2

"It seems Gilgamesh is dead."

"Oh. How unfortunate."

"You don't seem particularly surprised. Are you going to pretend this was all part of your big plan?"

"Of course not. We've just lost a very powerful ally."

…

"However…"

"I knew it."

"We've always known it takes the death of seven Servants to reach the Root. I hoped to achieve that without stabbing my current partner in the back."

"Take a hell of a lot more than that to kill him."

"Precisely. My goal last night was to kill one of the existing extras and entice the other to join the fray. I think it went rather well, don't you?"

"Well gosh my darnits. You do seem to have it all figured out. Remind me how exactly you can be sure the Grail will accept those two as sacrifices?"

"I can't. Still, I think it's worth a try. After all, what have we to lose?"

"A single wish."

J. Smith Proctor paused, savoring his position in the center of a breathless audience. He would have to live far longer than his 26 years to grow tired of this feeling.

"That is the reward we're promised just for staring at a star. Find a genie in a lamp, and you get three. Get yourself a fairy godmother, and you may well be set for life. This is the image of the magical arts we're given as children, a simple exercise in cause and effect. All you need is good faith and great luck, and your dreams will appear before you."

He allowed himself to cast his gaze back to the small group of girls in the left side of the third row. He already had them on the edge of their seats; there was no telling where the rest of the speech might lead them.

"Of course, it doesn't take very long for us to learn the truth. If every star in the night sky could grant a wish, no child would ever go hungry, or go to school again, for that matter. Magic is no matter of luck or providence; it takes years of hard work and dedicated study to heal the tiniest cut or summon the weakest flame. And you must never forget the risks, or the sacrifices that must be made. Remember, humankind cannot gain anything without first-"

He stopped suddenly. He always fumed inside when someone came in late, but he'd never let it unbalance him before.

The tall man in red with long black hair in two curtains on either side of his face took his seat as quietly as he could, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

_Still keeping tabs on me, teacher? _Proctor thought bitterly. _And yet still so shy around crowds, huh? Well, we'll just have to keep working on that._

"Lord El Melloi! How kind of you to join us!"

The Brit's left eye twitched, as it always did when someone got his title wrong. The crowd, Proctor noticed to his annoyance, began twittering like middle-schoolers about the great Clock Tower teacher who had produced so many of the finest mages of the age. Proctor's hands stayed clenched at the podium until the end of the lecture.

"-and so, before you begin your journey, you must ask yourself: what would I be willing to give for a single wish?"

_I know what I'd give for a new secretary, _he thought as he continued to greet the endless line of people at the reception afterwards. _Why didn't she tell me they wanted a book signing? At this rate I won't have enough time for the s-_

"How many times have I told you it's Lord El Melloi the Second?"

His old master's words yanked him back to the task at hand, to his great annoyance.

"I don't know, teach, how many times have I told you to get a haircut?"

They grasped each other's hands tightly with glassy smiles fixed on their faces.

"It is good to see you, though it makes me feel old. You've made quite the celebrity of yourself since you left London."

"What, this?" The younger professor gestured carelessly at the oversized photo of his grinning face hanging from the museum's entrance hall. "It's just a lecture tour. And a book signing. Maybe a few late night appearances."

"You don't say." The lord glanced at the long line of eager customers at the signing table, mentally calculating the ratio of the sexes.

"And what brings you stateside, and to the nation's capital no less? Have you grown tired of dreary old English cuisine? Because I know a great Japanese grill over on-"

He gasped as his mentor's grip suddenly grew tight as steel.

"I hate Japanese food! You must remember that, just like you must know I can still rescind your diploma. And it's not really any of your business why I'm here, is it?"

"I don't suppose it is. Well, if you'll excuse me, one of us has a long line of fans to attend to, and I don't see your name on those books of theirs." He turned to leave.

"James, wait."

He turned back with a cold sneer. The older man actually had a sad, disappointed look on his face, one he hadn't seen since they'd caught him in those unauthorized duels with his fellow classmates.

"Yes?"

"That speech you gave, about the dangers inherent in the kind of magic you practice? I thought it was very good."

"Thank you."

"I only wonder if you've really given it much thought, how much you'd be willing to lose for a single wish?"

He smiled. "Goodbye, Professor Second."

"Goodbye, James."

They both turned and walked away, both scowled the second their backs were turned, both with the same thought on their minds.

_Gloves._

Abigail Hawthorn's best weapon as a daring international reporter was her charm and good looks. Her employers had arranged her interviews with the most powerful and dynamic (male) figures of the day because they knew she had a peerless knack for weeding out the most intimate details of their personal and professional lives. Combine that with her ability to weave their stories into passionate narratives that could paint the most corrupt and greedy subjects in a near-angelic light (or vice versa), and the businesspeople and politicians should be lining up at her door, dammit!

This is what she told herself as her latest subject stood her up for the third day in a row.

She sighed, turning back to her atrocious first draft. Outside her hotel, the busy streets of Jerusalem continued to make noise with no regard to her need for focus whatsoever.

"Ask how long the war's been going, and you're liable to get two answers. The academics and documentary narrators back home usually say thousands of years, but the man on the hot, dusty street will probably shoot for a little over thirty. That was how long ago the Zion Mages who kept a semblance of order with a certain kind of fist were assassinated."

Her biggest problem, Abby reflected, rubbing her temples, was that she couldn't quite decide what tone she wanted to take with this. Obviously the seriousness of the source material had to be respected, but she couldn't very well let people get _bored_ or anything. That was how the papers had gone under.

"To this day, no one knows who was behind it. Conspiracy theorists have of course blamed America and aliens out of habit, but they've had more creative culprits, too, like the Magus Killer, an old spook known in guild circles who would apparently kill any corrupt or dangerous magical practitioners without a warning or trace. Once word of how cruelly the Pakistanis were treated under the old regime spread, it became easy to see how a few well-placed bullets might make a just solution."

She scrolled back up to the beginning of her article, the part that reminded her it was supposed to be uplifting. Outside the window, another mortar shell fell unheeded, save the unlucky cabbage merchant who screamed as his produce went up in smoke. Again.

"Niklas Schuster is not a difficult man to find. The founder of Healers Beyond Borders is rarely away from the front lines, spending most of his past decade in the disputed territories we in the West call the Holy Land. Regardless of one's religious affiliations, a short walk along crater-laden streets and bullet-riddled alleyways shows how well it lives up to its name…"

She heard a knock on the door, immediately perking up.

"Who is it?"

"Clara Schuster."

Amy tried to contain her disappointment. Of course he wasn't going to show up, he didn't even show for his Nobel Prize. Why would he ever talk to some reporter? She should really consider this a great opportunity. According to her notes, the Schuster's had gone directly from fellow apprentices in Berlin to business partners and spouses with nary a bump in between. She'd find it sweet if the ass didn't keep snubbing her.

"Please, come in."

She entered with a nervous smile, her naturally blonde hair with two shockingly early gray streaks pulled back in a bun. That and her red, white and dirt surgery gown showed she'd just come back from the job.

"If I'm keeping you from something important…"

"Oh, no, it is all fine," she forced through a thick German accent crossed with the local flavor. "I know you are as busy as us, and your report will help us raise awareness. I want to help you finish as soon as possible!" Abby grimaced at the woman's enthusiasm. She found such happy, energetic attitudes infectious, with symptoms not limited to nausea and diarrhea.

"Besides, it is our policy to always take a few breaks when we can, so we are fresh for the next patients."

Abby raised an eyebrow. "I've noticed that doesn't seem to apply to your husband."

She smiled sadly. "Yes. He… loves his work."

_He hated his work. The old woman refused to let him set her arm, still insisting he see to the baby. He didn't know how to tell her there was nothing he could do…_

"It really is very simple. We just try to bring the most talented healers out where they're needed the most."

Abby began taking notes. "And you're doing this by offering one year of field experience over two in University, correct?"

Clara nodded. "We believe anyone can make a difference."

_This girl had bad burns all along her left side. The one with shrapnel in her legs would have to wait until he'd at least numbed the pain…_

"Listen, Clara, I don't want you to get your hopes up too much. Just because the site I work for is popular doesn't mean anyone's going to read _my _article." _Especially now I've gotten a reputation for writing such downers._ "And even if they do, honestly, there's no guarantee that'll get anyone more interested in helping a bunch of foreigners."

"Oh, but it is very easy, these days, to help us save lives." The healer spoke earnestly, as if she believed her personal plea would reach every apathetic soul in the free world. "They can go online and donate in very little time. It really is the money and supplies we need, rather than the workers..."

_They would run out of prosthetic arms soon. He sometimes wished he could explain to these people not to cover their faces when the enemy brought acid bursts. Didn't they know new eyes were much cheaper?_

Clara traced her finger on the edge of her coffee mug, lost in recollection.

"You see, we'd been coming here once a year ever since we were apprentice healers in Berlin. That was what made me love him, seeing him get so passionate about these people and their troubles. We were married the year after our _Abstufung."_

"That's the graduation ceremony for German mages, correct?"

The healer nodded. "We knew what we wanted to do. So we did."

"That all sounds so…fast. You never had any regrets?"

"No. No regrets."

_The nurse fell back with five red fingers smeared on her cheek. He screamed at her to go away, to fetch him more bandages, didn't she realize how hurt this man was? But he wasn't giving up! He could still save them! Rough hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him away, still screaming._

A dove landed in Josephine's hand, drawn inexorably toward the faintly glowing seeds she held in her outstretched palm. Mal-…Mor-… her boyfriend gently took it from her and slit its throat with an ivory knife.

She didn't even wince. She had been trained in magic since birth, sacrificing animals and healing wounds before her last baby teeth were out. It had been that way for all the women of her family, back to the first Wampanoag sorceress purchased by a British mage as a wife.

He carefully gathered its blood in a small silver vial. She checked her hand absently as he began his incantations, feeling like a death row inmate waiting for a pardon as the chair started to buzz. It was still there.

Finally, he poured the contents of the vial into the little pond where they had set up camp. It turned silver almost instantly, and he knelt down to stare intently at the water. From this angle, he would have looked like a painting of Narcissus, if the path behind weren't littered with candy bar wrappers.

"I'm ready if you are," he said.

"Right." That was how all their conversations had gone the past two days on the road, curt and business-like. Well, technically they'd spent the whole day talking after she'd received her Command Seal, but that didn't count. There was a difference between a dialogue and having things explained to her for hours.

The one time they'd gotten anywhere close to actually talking was when he'd given her the Catalyst he'd hidden away in an old church outside Washington. By then, she'd learned that Catalysts were objects used to form a connection with a Heroic Spirit during the summoning, usually things they'd worn or used in life. Her heart had been pounding with anticipation, as he hadn't told her what it was. It could be anything, a beautiful old Samurai sword, a silk gown from a Persian king, the dented helmet of a mighty Spartan warr-

"I got a rock."

He smiled, the first time since Gilgamesh. "It took me a couple of months to track that thing down. I wanted to have some insurance in case something like this happened."

"It took you two months to find a rock? I'm not sure I want you helping me anymore."

He laughed, a real, genuine laugh. Together, they started walking along the old graveyard path back to her car. "Good luck finding someone else who's actually won this thing. And if you want another hint as to who that belonged to, you should know when I found it, it was still lodged in an enormous skull."

She frowned, lost in thought. Suddenly, it came to her. "I think I got it."

"Oh? You sure?"

"Of course I am! Do not underestimate me, M-"

She stopped walking, clutching the pebble tight in her hand. He was watching her with a mixture of sadness and guilt, the kind all men wear when a lie comes out.

She took a deep breath, and asked what was on her mind. "Look, what do you want me to call you?"

He paused for a moment, considering. "Stick with Malcolm. Letting the others know my real name too quickly might prove dangerous."

"Okay, that's fine for now, but what about afterwards."

He turned away and kept walking.

"Just stay focused on the task at hand."

"Are you listening to me?"

She shook herself back to the present. They were in a state park in Virginia, getting ready to summon her Servant. Meanwhile, Malcolm was preparing a scrying portal in the pond, hopefully to observe any other Servants summoned in the last few days. He had explained how impossible it would be to search for them without any kind of anchor, but he could try to lock onto their actual summoning using the magic frequencies of her own. Or something.

"Oh, sorry. I'm ready."

She took her place at the Summoning Circle, and held the stone aloft in her hand as the ritual began…

"Heed my words, my will creates your body, and your sword creates my destiny!"

_In the pond, Malcolm saw a youngish man with wavy brown hair whom he recognized as James Proctor. At the opposite end of his circle, a rusted bronze arrowhead lay on a wooden stool._

"If you heed the Grail's call, and obey my will and reason, than answer my summoning!"

_The man with the long dark hair had a wild smile on his face as the magic wind blew wildly against him and the tattered red cloth on the altar._

"I hereby swear, that I shall be all the good in the world! That I shall defeat all evil in the world!"

_Tears ran down the Niklas's face as he held the ancient ring high. His voice cracked with emotion, for this time, the fresh-shed blood at his feet would not be in vain._

Mordred put his hands over his ears and gritted his teeth. There were too many signals, he had to focus in on just one…

Birds from half a mile away shot into the air as a massive burst of blue light erupted in the park.

Josephine let the stone fall, panting heavily. Her servant opened his eyes and grinned at her.

"Wow," she said.

_Niklas fell to his knees in exhaustion. The man in white robes with the long dark beard walked over to him, offering a hand. As he took it, the ring began crackling with power, casting all manner of vivid shadows across the old tomb._

_James Proctor stepped back quickly, the palpable power of his Servant filling him with fear and excitement. Cold gray eyes beneath a bronze helm regarded him harshly as he popped a bottle of champagne and cackled wildly._

The massive man with scarlet hair and fur cape adopted a serene and stately expression as the dust settled. It soon shifted into one of surprise, and then broke into a full grin as he recognized his new Master.

"Hey, boy, you grew up!"

Waiver beamed. "Welcome back, Rider!"

-X-X-X-X-X-

Just to clarify, Waiver _does _become the next Lord El Melloi in the Fate universe. I understand that would seem like utter nonsense if it was a fan-fic original idea. Also, I know Rider shouldn't technically have his memories from the last time he was summoned, but I weighed that against the fun of writing Rider/Waver bickering scenes, and promptly shot that bit of canon in the face. Please feel free to leave your thoughts in the review section.


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